


The Evan's Boy

by Somnioctem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass Hadrian Evans, Black Family Politics, Dark Harry Potter, Dark but not Evil Harry, Ethical Dilemmas, Evan family politics, Hadrian has an inner circle, Hadrian just may take over the world, Harry is Hadrian Evans, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Possessive Tom Riddle, Rivalry, Time Travel, Tom is fascinated, Who knew Ravenclaws good be so vicious?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somnioctem/pseuds/Somnioctem
Summary: “Something heavy and dark burned within his chest and seemed to increase with every swallow he took. He wondered if it was hate.”Just another Harry Time Travels. Maybe.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy(one-sided)/ Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Orion Black/ Harry Potter, Tom Riddle & Harry Potter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 217





	The Evan's Boy

**The Evans Boy**

Somnioctem

**Summary:** “ _Something heavy and dark burned within his chest and seemed to increase with every swallow he took. He wondered if it was hate.”_

Just another Harry Time Travels. Maybe.

**Rating:** M with MA moments further down the line. If I choose to put explicit scenes in here I will either forewarn you or censor them and have them posted on AO3.

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing that is recognizable from Harry Potter Canon. Any original characters, OOC moments, or other such nonsense I take full credit for. Not that I get paid for either way.

**Chapter 1**

"The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot be changed without changing our thinking."

-Albert Einstein

_October 7, 1940_

Southwark Cathedral, or _The Cathedral and Collegiate Church of St. Saviour and St. Mary Overie of Southwark, London,_ lies on the south bank of the River Thames close to Southwark Bridge. It is an impressive monastery, visually recognizable by its gothic towers, arched stain glass windows, and grey bricks. Within you’ll find the nave, a room of white columns and oak benches leading to a raised pulpit of gated iron and golden pipes of an organ that nearly stretched to the ceiling if it wasn’t cut off by a balcony, cherry wood railing curving outward and incasing the sun brightened windows depicting Christ’s Ascension.

It is in this hidden alcove, below the painted eyes of God, that softly colored light filtered in, bouncing off floating particles, and warmed the exposed skin of a ten-year-old boy. The sounds of the nuns in the kitchens could be heard resounding off the walls. There was no walk-in door that led to the balcony overlooking the cathedral's sanctuary, only a closed trapdoor, the ladder leaning against the wall to prevent anyone below a way of access. This was his own personal haven; a hideaway from those who claim to love all. All accept him anyway.

In his hands was a thick, black-covered book, the pages turning every few moments. Another stack of books sat at his feet with titles gleaming in gold letters: Niccolo Machiavelli's _The Prince,_ John Milton's _Paradise Lost,_ and Aristotle's _Nicomachean Ethics_. The church's massive library had become his best friend since he had learned to read, and he found that every book he read, he memorized.

A low hiss of pain escaped beneath his breath, the lashings from the day before were still tender to the touch as he tried not to press his back against the wall or floor. Father Amo, the head priest of the house, had not been happy to learn that he had used his 'gifts' again. The young boy had been in the vegetable gardens, tending the tomatoes and cucumbers, a job he usually found cumbersome but didn’t much mind since he would normally be left alone when a young adder slithered from a tomato vine onto his hand.

_"Hello." He whispered to it. He watched in rapt fascination as the snake lifted its head, its red eyes burnish in color, gazed back at him._

_"You can sssspeak to me." The snake hissed back, and the boy broke into a smile at the possibility of making a friend._

_"Yesss. My name is Hadrian. What'sssss yourssss?" He hissed back._

_"I have no name." The young boy frowned and then smiled again. "Well, I'll give you one. "_

_"How about-" A piercing scream echoed in the yard behind him, and before he could say goodbye to the kind snake, a hand had shot out and knocked his hand holding the serpent up. He watched as the creature fell to the ground with a pained sound before the same hand latched onto his shoulder and grabbed him, yanking him away and pulling him past corridors and stairways to a familiar door._

_He hated that door._

The priest had called him a witch: someone using devilish powers granted by making a deal with the devil himself. If he had made a deal with the devil, he didn't remember it. It didn't matter, either way, the priest had decided long ago that whatever allowed Hadrian to be able to do what he did, and the actual powers themselves, could be beaten out of him. It gave Hadrian no small amount of satisfaction to see the priest angry when the welts and bruises he had caused would be gone without even a scar within a day or two.

Hadrian had learned at an early age to hide his abilities and even his intelligence. Everything about him was abnormal. He spoke to snakes, he could levitate things with just his mind…not to mention what he did to those three kids.

Part of him hated himself because of it.

His abilities had caused the church to take him away from the other children orphaned there when he was 4 and he had no one in the world to talk to. No friend. Not that he had friends when he was kept in the children's ward. On the contrary, he had enemies and bullies. You couldn't trust another; that was his earliest lesson. The only one in the entire building he trusted with some measure was Mother Amarum, the head nun. She wasn't necessarily kind to him, but she didn't go out of her way to be cruel. She was more on the side of indifference. If he asked a question, she gave an answer and would make sure he was fed when the other nuns said there was no more food.

He closed the book, the soft pages fluttering as they came together. He laid his latest conquest on top of the rest and lifted his eyes to the window as the light had begun to fade into the night. His eyes watched as the red of Christ's robes turned purple and the golden light of his Ascension turned brown. He smirked at the irony the scene portrayed. He did not believe in God or the Devil. He did believe that there was…something…out there that gave everything that he did in life meaning or purpose. There was a point to his life and a reason why he was born. Even more importantly, there was a reason he could do what he did and he wouldn't deny who he was because others didn't understand his purpose.

He smiled widely, entertained by the aged tone of his thoughts.

A bell chimed, the vibrations felt throughout the entire building. He stood up and stretched before grabbing the ladder and quietly dropping it down the trapdoor. He gipped the sides and angled his feet in such a way that he slid all the way to the bottom. It was dinnertime. He sighed, lifting his head and shoulders in forced confidence, ready for the battle of getting fed.

The evening progressed normally. He timed it just right to be able to grab a plate when the cooks weren’t looking and ate in a corner of the canteen while watching the other children as they huddled together. The food wasn’t much, hadn’t ever been much, but was significantly less since the start of the war which had been going on for more than a year.

After dinner, the children were put to bed. All of the children, aside from him, were sent to the Bunkroom; a large room with 50 cots in four rows. There were at least sixty kids, however, so some of them had to double-up, mostly the little ones. The Nuns would usher the little children to their beds, make sure all were down for the night, before cutting out the lights. He would split off on his own, heading down the long corridors until he came to the Covent, the area where the nuns slept. They had placed him in the room at the end, a closet really, with a small cot and a half-melted candle for light-of which he kept protected underneath the worn fabric of the old berth that smelled like mildew and potato skins.

Sleep seemed peaceful before a strong hand woke him with a painful shake and a frightened voice called his name. On top of it however was the angry sound of the Civil Defense Siren, its sound obnoxiously loud in the night and he wondered, in the daze that comes with shifting into wakefulness, how he hadn’t heard before.

"Hadrian wake up. WAKE UP NOW!" The hushed, but the hysterical sound of Mother Amarum was high pitched in his sensitive ears. Her black robes blended in with the night, but her pale face, flushed a splotchy pink, and a set of fearful dirty brown eyes gleamed with the reflection of the candle she was holding. 

"Mother Ama…what is it?" His voice was hushed, dread spreading through him at her hysterical face.

"Hadrian…come…” She seemed as though she had wanted to say more, but quickly shut her mouth, grabbing his hand and yanking him from his bed. He was mindful enough to grab his coat and his shoes before her grip landed on his arm and she pulled him quickly from the room and down the corridors.

As they moved he noted that all of the nun's rooms were open and empty. Dread pooled in his stomach. Hadrian swallowed and pushed it down, forcing his mind to stay calm and focus on keeping his feet moving in order to keep up.

Mother stopped him suddenly, pushing his body against hers and pressing both of them into an alcove as the sound of voices curled around the corner. The light of the candle that had been guiding them was blown out and they were at once covered in shadows.

The siren continued to blare.

“Father Amo…,” he could hear the distinct voice of one of the younger nuns, Anne he thinks her name is. He never cared to remember, “all of the children have been placed in the shelter.”

The shelter was a large room built underneath the sanctuary. It was no more than a basement, but it was the closest thing they had when it came to a safe room. The sirens, sounds of forewarning of the German air raids, had become a norm and being sent to the shelter routine. One of the Nuns usually would knock on his door and lead him there without a word.

Something was obviously different this time.

“Good, Sister Anne, good.” He watched as Father Amo pulled on Sister Anne’s arm, “and what of…him?”

“He-he’s, “ Father shook the nun with a jerk, “he’s in his room.”

Father smiled.

“Good. Good.” He patted the girl on the arm before pushing back towards the shelter. “Run along. Make sure the kids keep their heads down. Oh, and Anne…” The nun, having moved to head back to the shelter, turned her head to look at him.

“Don’t speak of this to anyone.” Sister nun seemed to shake a bit before giving a quick nod. She turned and ran down the hallway.

They stood in the hallway watching Father Amo. The man seemed to be in deep thought. Whatever his thoughts, he was pleased if the light smile on his lips were a sign of anything.

Hadrian was numb. It was obvious that they were talking about him and it was equally obvious that they planned to leave him in that small room.

Though they couldn’t predict the monastery being hit by a bomb, they were prepared to let him be sacrificed it does. He unconsciously gripped Mother Ama’s robes tighter.

The sound of an explosion was heard in the distance; distant, but closer than it had ever been heard before. It made Hadrian shutter with fear.

Luckily the man had heard as well, his robes swirled around his feet as he hurried down another hall. Mother Ama stayed there a little longer despite the sound of the explosions were steadily growing closer.

Finally, she grabbed his arm again and they ran down the same hallway Anne had taken. At one point, when Anne would have continued on, they instead took a left turn down a corridor and then a quick right. Hadrian was familiar with this hall. Father Amo’s office was close.

In fact, they stopped at the end of the hallway that split: to the right was the Father’s office and to the right a dead end.

In front of them, displayed on one side of the corridor, was the great painting of The Last Supper. It was a painting that was thought to have existed in the Abbey since the “Swithum Lady” helped to turn the church into a College of Priests in 863 A.D. Jesus stood in the middle with hands open offering peace and bread. Hadrian melted this image into his memory, his brain absorbing how the colors of the stained glass windows behind him made the painting seem almost lifelike. 

He continued to watch Mother. She was currently saying a prayer of safe passage and covering. She spoke quickly with hushed tones to the point that even Hadrian's strained hearing could not pick up. She lifted her hands and pushed the great painting slightly to the left, revealing a door.

She gripped his shoulders again, turning him around to face her. They stood there for a moment, just staring before the nun reached up and placed her hand on his face. He knew he looked startled. No one had ever touched him so gently before.

His eyes burned.

"Why?"

"I…" He watched her face, watching the sneer curl around her mouth and the gaze that had always been calm when it came to him, darkened with hate.

"I am no liar, Hadrian. I have despised you since you first began displaying your …abilities. I will admit, looking back, that you have always been an innocent child. You didn't deserve what this…church did to you. But you were never **just** a child. There has always been something…other…about you. I am sorry for my part in whatever pain you have felt."

Hadrian reached for his forehead, feeling the softened scar buzz with…something, the small hairs on his arms lifting up as if tapping into a small amount of electricity. He could hear every breath Mother took in with such acuteness that it hurt the drums wedged closer to his brain. The erratic heartbeat of his body did nothing to help the throbbing pain. He didn't dare believe himself a demon-like what the priest and the nuns called him.

And yet, in the secret of the night, he wondered if they were right.

He wondered if he was some sort of evil creature that lurks in the shadows to grasp innocent people and personally take them to their doom. Could he? What was he? Was he truly a freak of nature? Should they fear him? 

He stared at nothing, his thoughts running rampant, then something shifted, more liked cracked within him, and all was calm. 

He wasn't something to fear…but he could be. 

"I know my hatred of you isn't necessarily right…but I'm going to do the right thing now, so listen carefully." She turned to the young 10-year-old with the most intense bright green eyes; they stared at her with a steady gaze, a gaze that shouldn't be on a ten-year-old's face. It made her shudder, a feeling that was not new in the years she had helped raise the boy. 

He felt as she pushed a wad of bills into his hands. "I have lived in this Abbey long before Father Amo came. I know more about it than anyone else. This leads down one of the old catacombs of the city. When you go down this passageway, it will lead you underneath the church. Follow it all the way down until you cannot walk any further. Make a right and follow the direction of the Thames. When you come out, look up on the shore to your right. There should be a small rowboat there for you. Get in it…make sure no one sees you and row until you cannot row anymore. The Sirens will cover your escape. Good luck, boy. With this, I wash my hands of you." 

With the resounding sounds of explosions, close enough to shake the dust from the stone ceiling, Mother Ama pushed Hadrian through the small door. He wondered why she just didn't come with him or why she helped him at all, listening as the great painting was pushed back in front of the secret door. He stood for a moment in stunned silence, his hand clenching a wad of bills. Cries of pain and death becoming louder as the sirens screamed.

He could feel the building above him shake as it was hit. He crouched down on the old stone ground, the air damp and aged with disuse, and pressed his head between his legs as listened to the terrible sounds of the building crumbled, Large pieces of stone hitting another, wails of the other kids who were cared for way more than him as they died.

Something heavy and dark burned within his chest and seemed to increase with every swallow he took. He wondered if it was hate. 

The sirens continued even when everything else had gone quiet.

A quiet, almost nonexistent sob escaped his throat as he sat there in the dust and the dirt. He hadn't cried since he was five and one of the nuns told him he wasn't worthy to be with the other children and he wouldn't start now. Instead, he began walking, following the path that seemed to go deeper and deeper beneath the cathedral, just as Mother Ama had stated.

He walked and walked. He eventually had to bend and crawl because the tunnel's ceiling lowered too far to walk, his knees scraping and bleeding from the rocks and grating dirt. Relief flooded him when he heard the gentle sound of moving water. It was too dark to really know where he was, but he had spent enough time in the darkness for his eyes to become attuned with the lack of light. He could see that the passageway had ended and opened up to the muddy, flat bank of the Thames, a portion that was hidden by tall reeds and the shadows of thick Ash trees.

The open, slightly lightened night sky greeted him as he pulled himself from an overgrown, slanted hole and onto the flattened ground. Looking beyond, he saw a crude boat floating haphazardly on the water. It was tied to the shore by an old rope.

And beyond that, he could see billowing smokestacks. The Monastery, sitting near the banks of the Thames was also close to the Southwark Bridge and the Bridge was on fire. He sat there, knee-deep in mud, shivering in the London winter, hands gripping the loose fabric of his flannel pajamas and eyes starring unwavering in front of him.

Flames licked up towards a clear night sky that refused rain. Smoke was so thick that from afar they looked like clouds until the shifting shapes moved in front of ruin buildings and misshapen iron from the bridge. Fires threw grotesque shapes, shadows that stretched along a broken city like gnarled fingers of wrathful spirits.

It looked like the seventh circle, the realm designated for the sin of violence, in Dante’s Inferno.

"…as they wallowed in blood during their lives, so they are immersed in the boiling blood forever, each according to the degree of his guilt…”

His voice was barely a whisper on the wind and yet it was a surprising comfort; maybe because it broke up the sound of wails and explosions and the siren.

He shook himself, focusing on his own safety, and quickly untied the boat. He got in, almost tipping over into the icy waters of the river in his haste, and making sure to look around for any persons who might see him. The reeds on the shore were so tall that if someone were hiding, he wouldn't have known. He waited for a moment, caution still jittery in his body. Then, with a strong push, he moved the boat lose from the shore as quietly as he could. He paused for a moment, listening to the whistle of the wind as it bounced off the high grass.

Nothing stirred. He grabbed the small paddle in the boat and began to quietly paddeling himself down the river. Away from the fire. Away from the sirens. Away from the clawing smoke and subtle scent of burning flesh. He focused on breathing and the rhythmic movements of his paddling.


End file.
